The Native Star Read online

  Practitioners’ Daily had far fewer engravings than the other papers, and far more printing. One headline, however, was very large:

  “Antonio Pietro Grimaldi, Notorious Manipulator, Taken into Custody by Philadelphia Police.”

  “That Grimaldi’s a loathsome scoundrel,” Miss Pendennis offered. She had laid the dress across the bed, and was back on her knees, digging through the trunk. “There are a lot of people in the magical community who will be pleased to see him brought to justice!”

  “Mr. Stanton was under a compulsion from Grimaldi,” Emily said.

  “So I heard. One of the few pieces of information I was able to drag out of Mirabilis this morning. Dreadnought was furious at being sent off. He thought he was safe, with Grimaldi in custody and all … but I suppose Mirabilis was taking no chances.”

  “Taking no chances?”

  “Can you imagine the damage that might have been done if Dreadnought had come back to the Institute while the compulsion was still active?” Miss Pendennis clucked absently as she compared two equally uncomfortable-looking corsets.

  “But the Institute is Mirabilis’ fortress,” Emily said quietly. Her head was beginning to ache. “Surely a compulsion would not work within the Institute.”

  “Direct cellular subjugation to a hostile Warlock must never be taken lightly,” Miss Pendennis said gravely, as if she’d just delivered a common aphorism. Then she stood, her arms overflowing with petticoats and other silken things. She dropped these on the bed with an airy floof.

  “All right. First off, if you’re going to go through with this ‘Precedent’ Mirabilis intends to set, you must at all costs avoid being seen as someone the Warlocks can trifle with.” Miss Pendennis pointed to the dress she’d laid out on the bed. It was a shimmering fantasy of heavy shot silk, its folds gleaming every shade of purple from dark aubergine to brilliant violet. There was enough fabric in the skirt alone to make Emily three dresses. “That dress is a Worth. From Paris. That dress they will not trifle with.”

  “Why should anyone want to trifle with me?” Emily regarded the garment. “I’m a practitioner, just like them.”

  “Oh, Miss Edwards! You do have something to learn!” Miss Pendennis chuckled grimly. “Modern magic is a gentleman’s game, like playing the stock market, or smoking cigars, or driving fast little carriages. Men do. Women don’t.”

  “What are you talking about? Women have always been Witches!”

  “Women have always been whores, too,” Miss Pendennis said pointedly. “Warlocks tolerate nice women of good family and independent means who dabble in the supernatural arts. When it’s a lady like me or that awful Mrs. Quincy you encountered in San Francisco, they dismiss it as an eccentricity, like writing poems or keeping two dozen cats. But honest working women who practice Witchcraft for a living? For money? That’s a whole different kettle of fish. Strictly skycladdische.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes.

  “I’ve been called that,” Emily said, her throat dry. “Skycladdische.”

  “Of course you have,” Miss Pendennis frowned. “Though I hope Dreadnought wasn’t crass enough …”

  “No,” Emily said quickly. “Caul. And Tarnham.”

  “Tarnham? That rotten little worm!” Miss Pendennis pursed her lips disapprovingly. “So conflicted he has to carry around a familiar. Pathetic.”

  “I didn’t know credomancers kept familiars,” Emily said. “Do you mean the ferret?”

  “Practitioners who can’t resolve deep emotional conflicts about their mantic powers use familiars as a crutch,” Miss Pendennis explained. “Tarnham’s family is hellfire-and-brimstone Baptist. Tough to escape an upbringing like that. Deep down, he believes he should burn at the stake. So the ferret is his partner in crime. By bonding his power to the animal, he can believe that it’s the animal that’s evil, not him. It keeps him sane … though in his case, that’s a relative term.”

  Emily pondered this. Then she looked at Miss Pendennis warily.

  “So, what does it mean? Skycladdische?”

  “It’s German. It translates simply as skyclad-one. Skyclad is an old term for nakedness—the state in which many common spells are performed. Of course, it’s not the nakedness per se that’s the problem, it’s what the nakedness leads to.”

  “What it leads to?”

  “Licentiousness and lust! Depravity! The Witch as seducer of men and eater of their organs of generation! The Witch as unprincipled opportunist who will not scruple at sacrificing her very virtue for the power she has no right to wield!” Miss Pendennis waved a fist in the air, spoke the words in a declamatory voice, as if she were up on a podium making a speech. Then she regarded Emily closely.

  “You’re blushing,” Miss Pendennis said. “I’m sure you’re a nice, decent girl. But don’t ever forget this—there is not one Warlock in the world who will give you credit for being anything better than a brazen hussy.”

  Emily’s eyes flashed up rebelliously. That wasn’t true! Certainly Stanton didn’t think …

  … but then Emily’s cheeks burned even hotter. Why on earth wouldn’t he? What reason had she ever given him to think otherwise? How about the time he’d seen her dancing naked under an oak tree, trying to bewitch a man into marrying her so that she could get her hands on his money? She pressed her hands to her face, suddenly wishing she could sink through the floor.

  “To summarize the sad state of the world,” Miss Pendennis said, lifting a finger. “Ladies: respected and revered. Skycladdische: despised and discarded. And that’s why the Witches’ Friendly Society exists. Of Witches, by Witches, for Witches! Simple enough?”

  Emily said nothing.

  “So, we transform you into the very picture of propriety and respectability. At least until Mirabilis’ Grand Symposium is finished.”

  “If you say so,” Emily said softly.

  “All right then,” Miss Pendennis barked, like a drillmaster. “Down to your chemise!”

  “The thing to remember is that clothes are like armor.” Miss Pendennis pulled out a steel-boned corset and held it up, eyeing Emily’s waist critically. “You don’t normally wear corsets, I presume?”

  “I always found it hard to climb mountains in them,” Emily said.

  “Women who don’t wear corsets are called loose. Yet another euphemism for whore.” Miss Pendennis fastened the obnoxious garment around Emily’s waist, pulling the laces to an extreme tightness.

  “The more clothes you wear, the more protected you are.” Miss Pendennis continued her previous lecture as she pulled and tugged, grunting. “Clothes deflect reproach.” She didn’t stop tugging until the laces had been drawn so tight that Emily despaired of her ability to draw enough breath to walk across the room. Miss Pendennis nodded fiercely. “With practice you could go as small as any lady of fashion, but that’s enough to fit into the dress.”

  “How do the ladies of fashion manage?” Emily panted.

  “They manage because they have to,” Miss Pendennis said, tying the corset. “Now, I’m an advocate of dress reform myself. I despise the thought of what this barbaric truss is doing to your innards. But we must choose our battles and that’s one I’m sure I won’t win for a long time, if ever.”

  The purple silk ballgown from Worth had been laid carefully across a chair to wait for the Grand Symposium. For daytime wear, Miss Pendennis pulled out a fawn-colored cashmere embroidered in black floss and declared it just the thing.

  “Warm and soft, delicate and vulnerable.” Miss Pendennis pulled the dress down over Emily’s head, her fingers flying up Emily’s back to fasten the multitude of little pearl buttons. “Fuzzy, too. The symbolism just gets cruder from there.”

  “But I thought I was supposed to be armored,” Emily said.

  “That’s the paradoxical thing about a woman’s armor,” Miss Pendennis said as she fluffed the dress in a few places. “The softer it is, the better it serves.”

  “You’re not making any sense! I thought the idea wa
s to keep men from getting ideas. Men get ideas about soft, fuzzy, vulnerable girls!”

  “Of course they do,” Miss Pendennis said. “But they feel guilty about them.”

  The woman stood back at arm’s length, pinching her chin between her thumb and forefinger critically. She seized a little black hat and perched it atop Emily’s head, cocking her head to scrutinize the effect. As she was pinning it on, there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Right on schedule,” Miss Pendennis murmured. “That’ll be Ben, coming with some plan to distract us. Mirabilis will have arranged it, because it won’t do to have us sitting up here thinking all day. He’ll have a lecture for us to go to or something … somewhere we can’t really talk. Which is exactly why I put you into this lovely walking outfit. Follow my lead.”

  There was another knock, gentle but insistent.

  “Enter!” Miss Pendennis barked, angling Emily’s hat attractively.

  Ben appeared in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Excuse me, Miss Pendennis, Miss Edwards … but since the symposium will not commence until later this evening, Sophos Mirabilis thought you might enjoy attending a presentation by one of our senior professors. He is speaking to a group of advanced students on the topic of—”

  “Oh, thank you so much for the offer,” Miss Pendennis said, “but Miss Edwards is simply withering for want of fresh air. We’re on our way for a walk in your institute’s lovely gardens. You needn’t trouble yourself on our account.”

  Ben looked at Emily’s walking dress. He smiled gently.

  “Of course,” he said. “The weather is quite fine, and I will be happy to show you the Institute’s conservatory.”

  Miss Pendennis frowned slightly. “We hate to put you to the trouble,” she said. “I’m sure preparing for the Grand Symposium will require all of your attention.”

  “The arrangements will be seen to,” Ben said. “The Sophos has asked that I allow nothing to interfere with my attendance upon the Institute’s two most important guests.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Miss Pendennis muttered, giving Emily’s shoulder a final brush and handing her a parasol as if it were a club.

  “All right, walk fast and see if we can’t give him the slip,” Miss Pendennis whispered to Emily as they emerged into the sunshine. Ben, for his part, was quite obliging. He lingered behind, giving the two women a wide berth for their private conversation.

  “Now listen. We obviously won’t have much time to go over this in depth, but we need to have a plan of attack for tonight. The one thing you have to remember is that you have as much say in this symposium as anyone else. More, in fact, because you’re the one with the rock in your hand. So have you given any thought to what you think should be done with it?”

  Emily drew her brows together but said nothing. She reached up and felt for the hardness of the acorn around her throat. But as she did, she knew that Komé couldn’t give her an answer … just as Miss Pendennis couldn’t, nor Mirabilis, nor even Stanton. She knew, suddenly, that this question was for her, and it always had been.

  “Do you think we should recommend that the power be returned somehow?” Miss Pendennis prompted softly. “Or maybe it was accreted and shed by some poorly understood geological mechanism—in which case, returning it might be ill-advised.”

  Miss Pendennis’ words faded as Emily stopped, placing her hand on the rough bark of a large tree. She could feel life thrumming through it. She felt her eyes unfocus as she remembered Komé’s words …

  You must allow your mind to stretch to the size of the stars, for that is the size of Ososolyeh’s dreams.

  You must forget that time exists.

  You must forget that you can die.

  “The Sini Mira,” Emily said distantly. “The Sons of the Earth.”

  Miss Pendennis whistled. The sound of it brought Emily back to consciousness. She focused on the woman’s face.

  “Hand it over to a bunch of Russian Eradicationists?” Miss Pendennis shook her head. “Caul’s paranoid enough about a bunch of extinct Aztecs. Thank goodness he’s not here to hear you say that.”

  “Miss Edwards is perhaps referring to the Sini Mira’s well-known research correlating the exponential increase in the human use of magic over the past two hundred years with the increased production of Black Exunge,” Ben’s voice broke in softly. Emily and Miss Pendennis turned, both unaware that the man had come up close behind them. “The same research suggests that the Mantic Anastomosis possesses a consciousness—an utterly alien, nonhuman consciousness, but a consciousness nonetheless. Taking those findings together, perhaps it is possible that the appearance of the stone was not merely a geologic accident.”

  “A consciousness?” Miss Pendennis snorted. “The Mantic Anastomosis is nothing but a huge web of rock.”

  Emily looked at Ben. There was a soft challenge in his eyes, as if he was waiting for her to say something. After a long moment of silence, he looked over at Miss Pendennis.

  “I’m sure you know better than me, miss,” he said.

  The conservatory was a large, ornate white building with vast panes of glass that gleamed in the late morning sunshine. As they walked up the path approaching it, Emily saw men in servant gray sweeping broken glass from the slate flagstones. It was the first tangible evidence Emily had seen of the attacks of the previous night.

  Inside the conservatory it was close and sweltering. The air was heavy with the rich perfume of a hundred kinds of brilliant blooming orchids. The orchids seemed to be Ben’s special passion. As they moved along the smooth pebbled walks he showed them dozens of varieties in all colors: deep luxurious oranges, vibrant ceruleans, gentle shell pinks.

  Ben stopped in front of one particular orchid vine that sat at the center of the conservatory. It was huge. At its base it was as thick as a man’s waist, and its long curling tendrils easily overtopped the hundred-foot pillar of cork that was the vine’s support. It sported hundreds of deliciously fragrant blossoms that were a somewhat bilious shade of chartreuse veined with chocolate brown.

  “This is the one everyone comes to see.” Ben reached out a finger to almost touch one of the nodding blooms. “The Dragon’s Eye Orchid. The largest in the world. Its roots go well underground into the limestone gravel underneath the conservatory.”

  Emily nodded appreciatively, fanning herself with her hand.

  “I hope it’s not too warm for you, Miss Edwards?” Ben murmured.

  “Hot as Hades,” Emily said. Having grown up in the mountains, Emily had never experienced such a humid place. Sweat beaded on her brow; she wiped it away with three fingers. “Now I know how Mr. Stanton must have felt!”

  Was it her imagination, or did she see a shadow of a smile pass over Ben’s face?

  “Huh?” Miss Pendennis had stopped by a bed of vegetables and was looking at a purple cabbage that was the size of an ottoman. “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Stanton. He is always so warm. You never noticed?” Emily said. “The first time he ever gave me his arm, I thought he was ill with a fever. But he said it was some kind of an impairment.”

  “Impairment?” Miss Pendennis’ brow furrowed. “Nonsense. Dreadnought is healthy as a horse. Has a fantastic appetite.”

  “Well, the appetite is part of it,” Emily said. “It’s why he has to eat all the time. He called it something in Latin … Exussum cruorsis …”

  “Burned?” Miss Pendennis’ voice dropped to a murmur. Her eyes went wide, and she stared at Emily with sudden horror.

  “Well … yes. Burned. He said that was a rude way of putting it.”

  Miss Pendennis put a hand over her mouth.

  “Hortense never told me,” she said. “Oh, my. I never knew. That’s … tragic.”

  “Tragic?” Emily drew her brows together. “I don’t see what’s so tragic about it, unless you have to pay his grocery bills.”

  Miss Pendennis stared at Emily.

  “You don’t know what being burned is,
do you?” She paused. “He didn’t tell you?”

  Emily felt suddenly apprehensive. “Tell me what?”

  “Calling someone ‘burned’ is imprecise. What they are is ‘burning,’ as in ‘burning up.’ What is he, almost thirty?” Miss Pendennis did a swift calculation. “Oh, mercy. The poor boy can’t have more than ten years left. At most.”

  A sudden chill danced over Emily’s skin, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. But the day remained as clear and blue as before and the conservatory remained just as sweltering.

  “Ten years? You mean ten years to … practice magic?”

  “Ten years to live,” Ben broke in softly. His words were formed with delicacy and precision. “Exussum cruorsis is a degenerative magical blight. Within a few years, Mr. Stanton won’t be able to keep weight on at all, no matter how much he eats. He will starve to death.”

  Emily’s head spun. The words rattled around in her head like lead shot dropped in a silver bowl.

  Burning up.

  She remembered the conversation she’d had with him in the chophouse in San Francisco … Training as a Warlock aggravates it substantially … he’d made it sound like such a little thing!

  Sudden fury made all her muscles tense and shake.

  Emily was suddenly aware of the fact that Ben was watching her closely. She brushed past him toward the door.

  … Professor Mirabilis perceived profound advantages in having me attend the Institute …

  Oh, the stupidity! Emily clenched her fists tightly. How could he have done it? And how … how could he not have told her?

  “Miss Edwards … hold on!” Miss Pendennis called after her.

  But Emily didn’t hear the rest of what Miss Pendennis said, for she was running back toward the Institute, as quickly as her silk-shod feet would carry her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cupid’s Bludgeon

  Emily raced through the gardens, stormed up the stairs, slammed a door behind her as she entered the cool darkness of the Institute. Stalking toward the broad marble stairs in the main hall, she did not notice Professor Mirabilis until she had torn past him, wisping rage.